


Black & Blue

by draculard



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Choking, F/F, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Dexter has his fascination with blood. Deb has hers with bruises.





	Black & Blue

She saw the bruises on Rita’s jaw the day she arrested Paul Bennett for a domestic disturbance. Faint and red, not yet darkening to blue. She didn’t want to admit how much she liked that, how much her eyes kept straying back to Rita, fragile and broken and beautiful, sitting alone on the front step.

She had to come up with a reasonable excuse, something she could tell both herself and Rita to explain her odd focus on the other woman. So she asked her out on a date.

For Dexter, of course.

And she told herself later she’d only been staring at the bruise because it made her feel sick  — or because she was worried  — or because she was so angry at Paul she couldn’t  _ help _ but stare. Those are the things a police officer, a fellow woman, is supposed to feel. 

Outrage. Disgust. Sympathy.

Not fascination.

Not excitement.

Not arousal.

* * *

She used to goad Dexter on purpose, when they were kids  — taunt him and needle him until finally he snapped and chased her down, twisted the skin on her forearm or pushed her to the ground, or even punched her.

She liked it best when he punched her; loved the slight redness left behind on the first day, loved watching as it turned to purple and blue. She’d sit in her room, alone, prodding the bruise with her fingers, relishing the soft, sore ache.

Then something changed  — she never knew what  — and suddenly Dexter couldn’t be needled anymore. She could say anything,  _ do _ anything, even hit him herself, and he wouldn’t hit her back. Dad must have talked to him, but why, Deb never knew.

So she resorted to hitting herself.

In the arm, on the face  — the face was her favorite. She’d go into the bathroom stall at school and curl her right hand into a fist and bring it against her cheek as hard as she could, trying to land squarely on the cheekbone each time. Over and over again, until she was certain it would bruise.

Dad would ask, inevitably, and she would tell him she got in a fight with some other girls, and that was always where it ended.

In time, though, she learned something important:

She much preferred seeing bruises on somebody else.

* * *

Boxing helped. There was no shortage of bruises in boxing, but the dark blue on an opponent’s eye or the cracked skin on her own knuckles was nothing compared to that unforgettable day when she’d seen the faintest bruise brushing Rita Bennett’s jaw. 

Delicacy, Deb realized. That’s what she wanted. Someone smaller and weaker than her.

Someone she could hurt.

Someone she could protect.

Someone who would look so,  _ so _ good with bruises on her skin.

But Rita was Dexter’s now  — Deb’s fault, she’d practically gift-wrapped Rita for him  — and there was nothing she could do but pretend. She could close her eyes at night, in bed, and imagine Rita lying next to her, half-dressed and vulnerable.

Her lips on Rita’s inner thigh, her teeth nipping just hard enough to really hurt, to cause an almost-instant purple bruise on Rita’s skin. Her fingers wrapped ‘round Rita’s wrists, pinning them to the headboard, feeling the bones grinding against each other in her grip.

Her hands on Rita’s neck, choking her soft and slow.

Soft and slow.


End file.
